


To Love A Mortal Man.

by CaveCarson (TinySparks)



Series: To Love A Mortal Man. [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: @GodOfPuddings, Angry Loki, Angry Sex, Bottom Loki, Car Sex, Drabble Collection, FrostIron - Freeform, GodOfPuddings, Good Loki, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunn Loki, Loki Angst, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Feels, Loki-centric, M/M, Magic, Miðgarðr | Midgard, One Shot Collection, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Loki, Porn with Feelings, SHIELD are bastards, Shapeshifting, Smut, Song Lyrics, Tony's Fine Ass, Top Tony Stark, Twitter RP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinySparks/pseuds/CaveCarson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of years on from the events of 'the New York incident', Loki - having been exonerated for his (most recent) crimes - has returned to Midgard... And now lives in Stark Tower at the leisure of a certain GBPP.</p><p>(Not so much God of Mischief as God of Sheet Stealing.) </p><p>FrostIron, with occasional other Marvel character interactions.</p><p> </p><p>(A collection of mostly drabbles, one-shots, and twitlonger replies originally posted from the Twitter RP account @GodOfPuddings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Such Beautiful Burn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FrostIron pwp drabble~ o3o

Just when Loki is quite convinced (not that he's /thinking/ per se, but some minor cerebral function is, incredibly, maintained) that he's /never/ going to achieve any adequate friction beyond that which fills him so completely - such /beautiful/ burn - Tony mercifully reaches down to put him out of his exquisite misery, leaving him crying out like some tortured beast, strokes swift and forceful in time with such unforgivably relentless thrusts...

It is quite undoubtable that a being of lesser strength would at this point protest the sheer brutality of Tony's snapping hips, but Loki is far from being a fragile creature, in spite of his slender, delicately sinewed form - a form which screams for this; which revels in the harsh, burning treatment that no other lover would /dare/ visit upon him, and fuck!, does he want this so very, very badly - a truth conveyed by the forcing open of tightly shut eyes to gaze out something of a forced glare of haughty regality, utterly at odds with his present positioning trapped beneath the smirking, damnable mortal - the dark emerald glare only present to express Loki's thought of "about time, too".

Tony wants Loki to see stars? He's /seen/ stars; He's seen /universes/... Loki would much rather see the desperately novel sight of a mortal completely owning him - every taut, bucking, burning atom... (But yes, stars; Stars may indeed be on the cards.)


	2. Bested.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (#FrostIron lovemaking drabble... aka ruining the backseat of one of Tony's vintage cars. 
> 
> Originally posted on the Twitter RP @GodOfPuddings, in reply to @syntheticheart_.)

Lo's got himself under control. Definitely. Undoubtedly, one hundred per-/RHHHNGHH, fuu...ckkk/..! Okay, not so much with the control, then.. Tony's subtle repositioning is a complete gamechanger. He grinds up into that most sweetest of spots, Lo shudders satisfaction; He grazes the gentlest of touches over Lo's tip, Lo gifts a plaintive cry to his lover's ear which suffices to say, "put me out of my beauteous misery, /please/, for the love of all that is sacred"... And then Tony whispers to him, guttural and provocative and /asking/ - asking! - that he "come undone" for him... And Lo /growls/ refusal. Why must he give in before Tony? With newly freed hands he claws down Tony's perspiration-slick back hard enough to leave ten perfectly painful score lines... 

"You would have me bested, Tony? T'will take more than... ah-ahnngh~!"

* * * * *

(As a side note - whatever the make of this vehicle, /seriously/ impressive suspension going on here - possibly even godproof.)


	3. You.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (#FrostIron lovemaking drabble... Originally posted on the Twitter RP @GodOfPuddings, in reply to @syntheticheart_.)

"...I... Love..."

Sweat, heat, iron; Wet, fluid, red; Firm, tan flesh beneath black carefully sharpened nails, slick, pale palms gliding down toward coccyx and beyond, to grip, to pull, to squeeze hard enough to leave bruises that would bloom to magnificent purples and greens, unintentional as they may be; The folly of forgetting one's own unearthly strength in the heat of lust, for which Tony's mortal form must, in this present tryst, suffer a sorely bruised backside... The god could always kiss it better, later. 

Desperately strange, that such a verbally conscious, even reserved character becomes so vocal in these final moments, crying out, cursing, begging, moans of satisfaction resonating deep enough to shake the World-Tree's ancient limbs... ["Oh, fuck... Fuck me, Tony, fuckkk~"] ...Yes, eloquence all but flees; And on the topic of ancient limbs, an unfairly youthful litheness enables the god to wrap what Tony refers to as 'legs that never end' about him in one quick, upward jerking motion, heels digging into the backs of his lover's thighs, as lips spill words that beg Tony to own him, best him, defeat him, reward him, set him free, never let him go, never, /never/, for eternity...

"Tony... Nnh~! St--/Starrrk/... Ahhn~!... I /love/...!" 

But that vital sentence cannot here meet its completion, for Lo instead meets his, his whole surprisingly well-muscled form tightening violently around Tony's, twisting, rocking upon that which fills him so completely, into his skilled grasp that has worked him into such frenzy, that his orgasm is /so/ intense that not only does he see stars, he can /feel/ them - their heat, their intensity, pulsing through his body to the very tip of his toes, curled as they are, feels like nothing else, no-one else can do this, make him feel so... "Nnh! Fff--!" ...Fulfilled? Free? Like a beast in desperate heat?... Oh Norns, this can't end, it shouldn't end, he doesn't want it to end!... 

Ah, /fuck/.

Breathe. /Breathe/. /Fuck/. Who do you love, Loki? Who?

"Mhhnn~... Prrrr~... /You/~."


	4. Dressed Up In Dreams. (i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What use a changeling without change?...

[ _God bless, what a sensitive mess,  
but things aren't always what they seem;  
Your teary eyes, your famous disguise,  
never knowing who to believe..._]

* * * *

"/Concentrate/".

Whiskery curls of ultramarine light flitter, dancing sylph-like in the sorcerer's upturned palm.

"/Focus/".

Tiny droplets of white-gold form, liquid, shifting, struggling to compete for dominance with the smoky light; Metallic beads rolling, butting at the minute rays of brightness, forcing them from the sorcerer's hand. With half-lidded, inebriate eyes, Loki watches, blue whorled face impassive, not a hint of a clue as to his mentality to be observed.

It has been one month since the Change. One month since Loki awoke to find his Æsir form had abandoned him, and the Jötunn coolness of his earliest days had returned. Something was very badly wrong with Lo's magics, and answer came there none... He had read every tome, every shred of scroll, every saga, every rune. Heard every oral history. He had crossed worlds, dimensions - had skipped around the multiverse on a quiet afternoon, had slipped off to demand answers from approximations of family... From sorcerers, from liesmiths... And all who claimed to hold the knowledge he sought asked a price. "No!," Lo had spat. "The time of bargaining has long passed. I am not he who walked in shame. I am reborn, I am..." He had found himself cut off with barking laughter, time and again. As if Loki would ever change! How could he possibly resist a barter, a deal? ...But the trickster had refrained, and so he remained ignorant of his affliction's true nature. Lo refused to be indebted. His slate had been wiped clean, and it would stay that way. And so the blue remained. And the horns... He looked like a sodding mountain goat. 

Anthony didn't seem to mind, which was kind. At first, Lo had suspected the mortal spoke soft lies of comfort... But it had become swiftly clear that a genuine affection for the form was held by the inventor. The way he had traced curious fingertips over the markings of his skin, had murmured beautiful compliments over the low ridges, the score lines of Jötunn rank... He had discovered the meaning of these lines, during his enquiries. They marked him as a prince of the realm by birthright. They named him the son of a warrior king, of Laufey the Skull-Smiter. How bemusing it was, Lo had thought, to be prince of two realms, yet welcomed by neither.

Over the weeks, knowledge had been accrued, and interesting as it was, the problem remained. He had discovered that other shape shifters - including versions of his own self encountered in other shades of reality - had experienced temporary loss of shifting ability in periods of sickness, and that the ability had returned upon recovery. No-one had, however, heard of such a lengthy period stuck in one's origin form whilst one retained what appeared to be perfect health. Loki had consulted healers, had even returned to his own Asgard to seek the the golden apples of his long-past darling Idunn. Perhaps he was dying...? No - he was a mere whelp of a boy, just past his first millennia; he was in perfect health, and his apple was unneeded, but as ever greedily consumed.

So he was blue. He was /blue/. It was... simply horrendous. One could hardly live amongst the humans and wander around being blue! It was utterly distasteful, and the horns were simply freakish. Lo had never spent any significant time amongst the frost giants, and on some level refused to acknowledge his heredity. It was all a horrible joke. The universe had clearly had enough of Loki's love for his beautiful Æsir form, and the adoration it in turn received from his admirers... Always punished! Was there not a single moment's peace in store?! ...He had sulked and whined and hidden, and avoided dinner meetings and gallery viewings, and all of the loveliness with which he had come to amuse himself with about town. Manhattan was a super place, it really was. Asgard was such a small kingdom, really... Midgard-- /Earth/-- played host to an infinitely more diverse cultural platter than was available in his own land. And so, due to the Jötunn problem, Lo had come to forego these charming events to which he had become accustomed, bypassing the flaunting of himself and his wit and style and lexicon and vast knowledge of stardust and soliloquies, in favour of holing himself up in Stark Tower. 

It was nice, staying at home.  
There was the cooking channel.  
There was the game of dismantling all of Anthony's cars.  
There was a couple of small hounds' affections to maintain.  
There was the Wikipedia and the Tumblr to peruse.  
There was a pool, a spa, a heated bubbling bath ("hot tub"?).  
There was ravishing a certain someone on every available surface of his damnable workshop when he least expected it... And there was washing away the grease and grime, soaping over bite marks, and...

Days passed. Weeks. 

Lo was still blue. Still stuck. Still horned. Still... 

Broken.

 

 

* * * *

[ _You look so messy_  
when you dress up   
in dreams.]

* * * *

"/Concentrate/".

Whiskery curls of ultramarine light flitter, dancing sylph-like in the sorcerer's upturned palm...

"/Focus/".

The trickster murmurs, practising the ancient art of meditative magic; The battle to quell the warring thoughts, the fraught competition for dominance of multudinous aspects of the self. In human terms, this would be understood as a form of schizophrenia. In immortal terms, this was simply organising the accumulated lifetimes of experience - organising spiritual paperwork, one might say.

White-gold battles with deepest blues, curling, unfurling smoke - as a freshly extinguished candle in petulance spits, doing its damnedest to smother the metal beading liquid and hot in the sorcerer's palm. His eyes unfocused, mind off in some other place, part of his consciousness dictating the visual feast representative of his conflicted self... Of fear and hatred, loathing for the runt giant within that set him apart from the other Æsir, inferior and unwanted by them, too... Somewhere else entirely speak the soft, soothing tones of lovers past, of friends, of comrades, of his dear mother Frigga, reassuring, praising, bolstering... Even Thor speaks to him, giving his blessing unto the man, the /new/ Loki that he has become... That alone serves as a reminder that Lo is dream-walking, and... Damn, he's lost his bloody thread /again/! Fiery frustration bursts forth from the sorcerer's hand, only to die in a blizzard of cold disappointment in himself. Lo knew exactly why he had shifted to Jötunn form, deep down. He could spend the rest of his days stuck like this, and he would continue to peddle ignorance of the matter.

It was Tony Stark's fault, of course; It always was.

In a moment of passion, Lo had entirely let go, and given all. They had been lovemaking that night he had shifted. He had waited, and held on for so, so long... And in that moment of climax had allowed his truest form to be revealed. It was a semi-conscious decision, he realised; Lo had never shown his natural Jötunn form to his lover, for a multitude of reasons, and... Some minuscule part of Lo's cumulative wisdom had whispered to him in that blissful moment of togetherness. It had told him that if the other truly loved him, he would not shun him in this, or any form. Lo didn't doubt this for a second; What had in fact pushed Lo over the edge in his decision to take Jötunn form whilst in the act of coitus was that mischievous drive - he had simply intended to /surprise/ his lover, startle him, as if the moment hadn't been intense enough... And as he had drifted off in his lover's arms that night, a relaxed, sated smile on lined blue lips, he slept peacefully, knowing he would soon revert to alabaster Æsir grace.

Of course, that hadn't happened. He couldn't change back. He couldn't change /any/ part of his appearance - which was phenomenally disconcerting an experience for someone who grew or removed facial scruff in the blinking of an eye (shave with something other than one's mind? are you mad?) or changed from raven to redhead, or became tattooed or cat-eyed and clawed, or female, buxom, voluptuous at will... 

What use a changeling without change?

Yes, there were no two ways about it.

Lo was /broken/.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics featured in this chapter are from the song 'Stacked Actors' by the Foo Fighters. Thank you for reading! Part ii to come shortly.


	5. Dressed Up In Dreams. (ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was on the sixty-second day of Loki's enforced Frostiness that Tony Stark gained exoneration for his starring role in Lo's un-shifting...

_[One more for hire, a wonderful liar!  
I think it's time we all should come clean.]_

 

* * * *

 

It was on the sixty-second day of Loki's enforced Frostiness that Tony Stark gained exoneration for his starring role in Lo's un-shifting; In the light of staggering new information that responsibility now fell freshly upon one Agent Phillip Coulson, and how damnably proud the mortal was about it.

"You have to admit, Loki - it's pretty effective." Coulson had smiled with genuine enthusiasm for SHIELD's latest scheming machinations, completely at ease in his stupidly high-backed super duper ergonomic office chair, handling the small glass tube containing the freshly removed engine of Loki's eight week long failure as a changeling... The minute ant-like object tinkled cheerfully against the interior of the vial, and Loki snapped ferociously at Coulson, un-silvered voice booming raw with borderline hysteria, his immense form towering, flickering mirage-like through an endless cycle of changeling façades, all of which spoke a trustworthy rage.

"Do /not/ call me by forename as one may a friend, you little weasling effluence-spurting snake!"

"…As we agreed, then; /Mister/ Laufeyson--"

"/Frigga/son."

"...Friggason, sure... That's sweet, actually. Your mom must be very proud of you," Coulson ventures, far too pleased to worry over his words - to worry over Loki's wrath. Ever since the trickster had been bedding Tony Stark (who else?), SHIELD had been able to operate under the luxurious assumption that the ex-supervillain would - more or less -behave himself. The most egotistical Avenger had a curious hold over the demigod which defied all logical reasoning, and was viewed by most as nothing short of miraculous. Long live inter-species affairs! …Even Loki's fuming rage couldn't bring Coulson down today. ‘Project Stasis’ had been a /complete/ success: The Director was going to be thrilled.

To briefly summarise, a microscopic machine of some kind - Anthony would be able to explain when Lo was capable of listening - had been implanted in Loki's body two months prior /without his knowledge/. It was all staggeringly simple, really: Loki had offered his 'services' to SHIELD for reasons of his own, and had been obliviously subjected to consumption of the thing (nano…what?) during a meeting in this very office. How vilely traitorous a simple cup of tea could become in the name of 'homeland security'.

This tiny, innocuous, miniature machine had /done/ something to him - created some kind of disruption to his molecular structure - in essence fixing it solid for as long as the device remained within him, programmed to cling to the inside of his gut… Dignified. He hadn’t been aware of so much as a bellyache – and no wonder his Asgardian healers had found nothing of error to his actual magic. Somebody at SHIELD had flicked a switch whilst Lo happened to bear his Jötunn form, and that had been that. Doomed to a fate of 'blueberry' jests for all of this time - and how he had cursed himself for his spectacular failure to detect the cause. There had been /nothing/ magical about it... Anthony's scanners could have picked it up at any time, and yet Lo had insisted on pursuing with unshakable confidence the belief that this was all about seidr, putting the blame onto himself wholly, immediately assuming the error was his own, the belief in his own inadequacy rearing up so entirely naturally... How /horrendous/. And he had only discovered all of this when Coulson had called one morning to request he come to SHIELD HQ. The Agent had said he had information that would interest Lo ‘greatly’. 

He had barely made the effort to arrive at all.

And now this Son of Coul was burbling away, having the cheek to /thank/ Loki for his 'cooperation' (?!) in the 'exercise' (??!!!?!), emphasising the 'integral importance to the project' of Lo's complete and utter obliviousness. Of course, Coulson had not masterminded the project, but he /had/ convinced Director Fury of the potentially valuable nature of Loki's participation in SHIELD research... This miniature device could be used for numerous applications, was Loki aware he wasn’t the only being with shifting abilities?, this was a great step forward in combating supernatural disturbances, so /well done, Loki/. 

…The blurry image in front of Coulson's desk comes to a sudden brightly shimmering halt, Æsir form revealing crimson dark cheeks, livid emerald eyes - hideously bloodshot as if marred by a torrent of tears - and whiter than white-knuckled hands fisted with taut, teeth-grinding intensity. Coulson stops babbling instantly; His jaw tightens – “Security..?”. In one rapid movement, Loki slams one of those ice-white palms down against the Agent’s desk with enough force to crack the surface clean through a good half-metre across, whilst bending to snatch the vial from betwixt Coulson's forefinger and thumb, before crushing the whole damn thing in his palm, blood flowing freely... Loki’s eyes burn seven shades of loathing; Coulson's lips downturn some, but he’s hardly quaking which infuriates the sorcerer yet further, for the agent knows he has very little to fear, and so Loki knows it too. His continued presence in New York, with Tony Stark, depends entirely on his continued good behaviour. One step out of line and all misery will reign upon him – and not just on Lo, but on Stark, too – who has borne so much burden in terms of distaste expressed by colleagues for his questionable taste in lover… Ugh. UGH! And now this. The absolute indignity of the whole experience! Treated like some bloody animal! Like a laboratory rat! An /experiment/! What disgraceful usurpation of ethical principles! What about informed consent? This was not what he had agreed to in engaging SHIELD. This was far from the entertaining quests he had envisioned... Didn't Anthony regularly fly around blasting things into oblivion and having a grand old time of it? Was that so much to ask for? A legitimate target to eviscerate? And... Was he not a man? A prince? A /god/, no less... Did not he too bear rights upon this realm? 

Apparently not.

A shuddering sigh escapes the sorcerer's lips - blessedly rose-flushed again, not a trace of blue chill to be seen, though he is too enraged to enjoy that knowledge... This he could deal with later - right now, he realised with a wash of shameful tiredness, he had had /enough/ of SHIELD - for this day, at least. With a final furious banshee scream loud enough to make /everyone/ in the building drop whatever they happened to be holding (largely coffee cups, and sneakily social network bearing StarkPhones), he tosses the crushed splinters of metal and glass down onto the agent's desk - accompanying blood spattering over strewn paperwork in a fantastic Pollock-esque burst - and with that, Loki disappears in an explosion of thick black dust, like a sack of soot released into a gale.

 

* * * * *

 

Later that afternoon Coulson files his report to the Director with a sense of a job well done, and at the end of the day tells Rogers all about it with a prideful enthusiasm over dinner. However, a pang of introspective guilt nudges at the agent as he brushes his teeth before bed that eve, but he spits it down the drain... All for the good of his country; His people; His Earth. 

Come morning, though, whilst fixing breakfast for himself and his lover, Coulson will find himself thinking of the frustration in the trickster’s eyes: a god bested… A god… Betrayed? Is Coulson really the kind of fellow who will feel actual sympathy for a man who – literally – stabbed him in the back? The agent thinks again on the livid upset that was clearly visible upon Loki’s face, the emotions the ‘god’ felt so very tangible, not even remotely restrained, as he slowly stirs sugar into his coffee for a third daydreaming minute. Coulson had thought that tricking the trickster would make him feel good. Victorious. Resolved.

…And it doesn’t.

 

* * * *

 

And Loki?

Loki… /sleeps/. 

He goes home, he crawls into bed, and he sleeps like the dead.   
When Stark slips in alongside him in the early hours, the only trace of blue to be seen is the muted light of the arc which shines upon his lover as the genius presses flush against him, pressing lips to that cool, ivory neck with a murmured “mm… love you,” before passing out, soon snoring gently.

Loki doesn't even stir.

…And for the first time in two months, there are no calciferous Jötunn horns protruding to scratch curling lines during fitful sleep into their Loki-chosen headboard (Regency era antique ivory-inlaid mahogany – very Lo). 

And? And so Loki will simply need to pursue other manners of mark-making, in this, his realm.

 

* * * *

_FIN._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same as in part one, the lyrics featured are from ‘Stacked Actors’ by Foo Fighters: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qj91k4Omyfo
> 
> Thank you for reading! ^.^

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for your time spent reading, for your comments, kudos, and subscriptions! 
> 
> Wishing you a 'Marvellous' day~ x


End file.
